


October skywatching

by junetangerine (culuyetille)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, last one to know, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/junetangerine
Summary: James Bond turned out to be surprisingly bad at long-term casual, and utterly clueless to boot.





	

James Bond turned out to be surprisingly bad at long-term casual.  
  
He had of course noticed the tentative smiles, furtive glances and drastic drop on dexterity in Q’s part whenever they made skin contact. Therefore, it was not a complete surprise when, on an idle April Wednesday, after James spent a few hours avoiding debrief by making a nuisance of himself at the Quartermaster’s office slash workroom, hanging about and examining every unknown device in sight, Q had let out a great weary sigh and, without looking him in the eye, said softly, “Would you care to go back to mine?”  
Yes, James would like that, would like it very much indeed, had been considering it on and off for some time now, whenever a lazy smile or well-timed innuendo managed to make the boffin flustered.  
It proved to be smoother than his hazy conjectures. Q was wonderfully responsive under his hands and so, so very eager. It was hot and a bit endearing, really.  
By the time they were done, it was already morning. James stayed for a kip. Q was a quiet sleeper, although a hopeless duvet hog.  
  
James was the one to suggest their second shag. He ran into Q at the lift at 9-ish p.m., dressed in a hideous checkered coat and messenger bag ensemble and smelling vaguely of burnt hair. James had given him an open once-over, pleased at how Q’s cheeks coloured at the attention.  
James reached to lightly brush fingers against the younger man’s forearm with a low, “Would you like to–”  
“Yes,” completed Q, fast and breathy, somewhere between a relieved sigh and a plea.  
James ran his fingers down and ghosted them over the back of the lad’s hand. Their touch was electric.  
  
From then on it was just… easy, to haunt Q-branch after hours, learn to work Q’s whimsy toaster and navigate the ever-present towering paper piles of project updates, blueprints and component invoices. There was also the perpetually chiming work phone that Q sometimes kept typing into even as James did wicked things with his tongue to that sensitive spot behind Q’s balls that made him gasp and hungrily dig fingertips into James’ shoulders.  
They usually went to Q’s or to a hotel. James didn’t much care for his shell of a flat – honestly, after three times too many of having your things sold because you’ve been presumed dead, you don’t really take the time to decorate. Or unbox much of anything at all. Q’s, on the other hand, was canny and afforded James ample opportunity to be nosy.  
  
It somehow stretched over time.  
Part of the beauty of it was how it was kept completely separate from their professional dealings. Sure enough, 007 would still call in with nigh-impossibly-timed requests for his Quartermaster, and suffer through the muttered string of insults to every aspect of his person as Q miraculously delivered and saved his arse yet again. He would still regularly lose and damage equipment and be treated to Q’s very stern scoldings (he once tried to deflect with an impish wink, only be informed in cold, no uncertain terms that he was to be on suspension from experimental gear for three weeks; much his dismay, the threat was followed through and he had to bear the smug smirks and bragging from 002 and 005 about the fantastic new riffle-sights).  
Another factor in the success of his and Q’s arrangement was that they never really discussed it. They did, on occasion, socialise outside of a bedroom, but that usually involved other coworkers or the quarter-yearly MI6 report drive (last chance to get your paperwork in order _or else_ , as per Tanner’s ominous emails) and the only half-decent 24h deli within walking distance from HQ. Bond still slept with people during missions, both for business and pleasure, and it took him a couple of months (five) to realise that he wasn’t bothering to look for any other bedfellows while in London.  
  
Actually, it only came to his attention this one time Q walked into medical while James was getting stitches removed. Once the nurse was done, the agent pulled his shirt back on and turned to the younger man.    
  
“Fancy some late-night supper?”  
  
Q just gave him a crestfallen little smile and shrugged.  
  
“I’m stuck reviewing rosters for Holiday season.”  
  
James didn’t actually get to spend the evening with his thoughts, because it turned out to be the one week a year when both he and Trevelyan were in town simultaneously. A pint turned into two, two turned into five, beer turned into tequila and that’s probably how he ended up being clapped in the back and treated to some rather emphatically enthusiastic statements.    
  
“You’ve got a good thing going,” declared Alec. And, at James’ creased eyebrow, “Clever, getting somebody with a clearance level higher than your own. Cuts down on a lot of uncomfortable silences and absences.”  
  
It was all James could do to keep staring at his friend as his brain tried desperately to muddle through the alcohol into alertness. Alec made a face, an exaggerated grimace.  
  
“It wasn’t supposed to be some sort of secret, was it? ‘Cause if it was, well, didn’t work at all. I mean, the lad’s not unprofessional or anything, but there’s no mistaking the moonstruck look when he’s assisting his precious 007.”  
  
James swallowed emptily. Realisation trickled over Alec’s features and he chuckled.  
  
“Aaaand, you’re just finding out about this now. Well, cheers, mate!” He raised his glass and took a long sip, then turned on James, eyes glinting merrily, “What, did you think he treated everybody like that?”  
“I didn’t think much about it at all.”  
“Figures,” said Alec, not unkindly. “Well, now’s definitely not the time to start.”  
  
He threw an arm over James’ shoulders and signalled the bartender for another round. Double.

* * *

James stewed in silence in the back of a cab.  
What he wanted to do was march into MI6, track down Q, drag him into a class 4 soundproof room and fuck him silly over a desk until all uncertainty had dissipated. But it was past 3 a.m., he reeked of alcohol and had barely been able to slur his home address to the cabbie.    
So he stripped down to his underwear, downed two long glasses of water, placed his Walther under a pillow and fell asleep face down on his impersonal mattress, fancying he could feel Q’s fingertips tracing his newest scar.  
  
He woke up with a foul taste in his mouth and crawled under the shower only barely opening his eyes. The water was tepid and revived him somewhat.  
Q had declined supper with him. James was well-aware that MI6 overworked the Quartermaster shamefully, but his mind kept going back to the sad turn of the lad’s lips as he’d answered. Slowly, his brain dredged up other things: Q’s dry remarks on 007’s insistence on good dress shoes that ended up torn and blood-smeared; the way he squinted without his glasses, face soft from sleep; that time he’d calmly backed one of his youngest minions when she’d sassed a supercilious git from accountings; how he’d plant his hands on his hips and push his glasses up his nose just before latching at what he thought were layman’s terms, eyes bright with his branch’s latest triumph; his covert glances in James’ direction when he said something witty; his urgency that James _don’t fucking stop oh fuck it just get the fuck inside him soon_.  
Then there was Alec’s single concession to the imbroglio of James Bond’s unsuspected relationship: “There isn’t really much to think about. Just know how you’d take it if it had to end.”  
It was settled, then.

* * *

  
He stood in front of the Quartermaster’s desk for two full minutes before being graced with the man’s attention. When Q did look at him, though, it was to be suitably impressed by James’ most flattering sandy Merrion suit and skinny burgundy Hermés.  
  
“What can I do for you, 007?”  
  
James walked around the desk and leaned against it, not missing Q’s alarmed reflex glance at his nether regions (which always made James perk up). He then leaned down a bit so as to speak in a volume hopefully inaudible to the busybody lot that were the Q-branch minions.  
  
“Have dinner with me tonight.”  
  
He watched in fascination as Q’s poker face clicked into place.  
  
“I’m working,” the lad said primly.  
“Lots of places are open late.”  
“No, right now. I’m working.”  
“It’s just a quick question.”  
“It never is, with you.”  
  
Q spoke evenly, staring at him with placid defiance. James had not expected that.  
  
“Uh, sir? Alvarez says prototype 117-N is ready for you in lab C.”  
“Thank you, Jorah. Bond, if you’ll excuse me.”  
  
James nodded, then adjusted his cufflinks and wore his most disinterested expression on his way out of Q-branch.  
  
He set foot in the hallway just as Tanner was turning the corner. The man’s eyes locked on Bond with the slightly manic edge reserved by all chiefs of staff to employees who owe them lifetimes worth of overdue paperwork, and he personally shepherded James to the hospital-green cubicle where MI6 expected him to “address the less scintillating parts of his job”. It was absolute bollocks. James was pretty consistent about wearing his earpiece and reporting to his handlers on current events, he couldn’t see why they wouldn’t just use the bloody transcripts. Or the satellite feed, or drones (he _knew_ they had those because his cock-ups were always replayed when they merited him a scolding by M himself).  
He started his computer and pulled up the queue of pending logs. It was a scroll-down list. Fuck, this was eons from what he’d expected to achieve today. He stared glumly at the tip of his tie.  
  
He was saved from both paperwork and pensiveness by the Quartermaster entering his cubicle and closing the door behind himself. James got to his feet immediately.  
  
“Q.”  
“James.”  
  
Q’s lips were curled up uncertainly. They studied each other for a moment, then Q ran a hand over his hair and his smile became wider and a bit self-deprecating.  
  
“Well, this is awkward.”  
  
James still didn’t say anything. Q took a step in his direction, getting within arm reach, but his body language was wary.  
  
“So, about dinner.”  
“Yes?”  
“What is there to it?”  
  
James’ knee-jerk response was to say ‘you, me and food’, but the intensity in Q’s eyes demanded better.  
  
“I’m not sure yet.”  
“I see.”  
“But I think I’d like to find out.”  
  
Q hmm-ed and nodded, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes darted from James’ face down his body and back up assessingly. He then lowered his head and let out a nervous little laugh.  
  
“This is so odd. I just never…” he gestured vaguely.  
  
“Don’t you want it? More, I mean?”  
“No, I mean yes,” Q amended quickly, quenching James’ shock, “I just, I didn’t think there was anything else to have.”  
  
His green eyes were huge and limpid. James felt his heart heavy and could’ve kicked himself a thousand times. He had, though, always thought that the best course of action lay forward, so he stepped into Q’s personal space and said in a gravelly voice, “You know, for a genius, you can be a bit of an idiot.”  
  
Q shrugged and scratched absently at his left elbow, folding into himself.  
  
“To be fair, I’m not sure I’d know what to do with more. I don’t want any displays in front of other staff, especially my branch personnel, and I know it’s at least part of your job to shag other people and almost die all the time. A bit much for me, I’m afraid.”  
  
It was as though James had been punched in the jaw. He reached blindly, laid hands on the younger man’s shoulders and croaked the single syllable of his moniker. He ached to pull Q into his arms and undo his better judgement, unbutton his trousers and work his cock until there wasn’t any sense left in Q’s mind and he’d agree to be James’. He knew better, though, than to make false assurances or empty promises, and so he just held on to Q’s shoulders while everything else fell apart.  
  
Then Q was crashing into his chest, arms going over James’ shoulders and tugging his head in for a messy kiss that was teeth, tongue and desperation. When they broke it for air Q whispered against his lips, “Gods, sorry for being such a coward. I just want you so fucking much, it terrifies me.”  
  
He claimed James’ lips again in a long plunge, then pulled away with the beginnings of a smile. James could feel one tugging at the corner of his mouth as well.  
  
“It’s a yes on dinner, then?”  
“Absolutely.”  
“Good.”  
“Excellent. Now, if you’ll allow me.”  
  
With that he stepped around James and set to work on his computer, bringing up the prompt command to fiddle with electronic innards. James stretched his neck, trying to make heads or tails of it.  
  
“Did you really have to do that now?”  
“Afraid so.”  
“Can I ask what you’re doing?”  
“Yes.”  
  
When nothing else followed, James rolled his eyes.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
“Scrambling the video footage of our heinous regulation infringement. Something I will not do again, and most definitely not to cover up us having sex in the office.”  
“Spoilsport.”  
  
Q’s mischievous grin matched James’ own.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This was cross-posted to [tumblr](http://junetangerine.tumblr.com/post/151259820989/october-skywatching-00q). If you'd like to talk ~~about how 00Q are ruining our lives~~ fandom, my inbox is always open! :)


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